One-hundred and Fifty:

At first, I sang the blues and starved,
heart-knots and whatnot carved
into my eyes. At second, my thoughts
were overwrought with regret, caught
in a cycle of self-stabs. At third, I got
mad: how dare you not want me? What
right do you have to reject me? Don’t you
know that’s my role? At fourth, I chew
on theories that maybe I fucked up
because I never told you to shut up.
At fifth, I wonder why so many others
love me but you don’t; the only lover
I was ever sure about. This is why
it’s tough: my ego is mouse-like.
I don’t care that you left me, just that
I have to pretend to be proud; a cat
that eyes you coolly as you leap from
room to room with whores and rum,
bored but still a stupid asshole who
doesn’t think he’s lost, though it’s true.

This is not what I wanted to say.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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